


Claimed

by Aethelflaed



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Branding, Capture, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Century-Long Nap (Good Omens), Hell Trauma, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Torture, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Art, Inspired by Whiteley Foster's art, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Physical Abuse, Scene: The Bastille, Well a little graphic read at own risk, Whump, really pushing the limits of what you can call canon compliant, we had crepes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed
Summary: A dinner of crepes. An angel who's ready to talk.But Crowley's evening is interrupted by the arrival of two demons. And they're not here to deliver a rude note.Based on an art piece by Whiteley Foster
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 196
Collections: My Lot Don't Send Rude Notes





	Claimed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> This work was inspired by [a truly heartbreaking piece of art by Whiteley Foster.](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612585496466587648/if-my-people-hear-i-rescued-an-angel-ill-be-the)
> 
> Content warning: what you see onscreen is not too bad, I've seen worse in PG-13 movies. What's implied is quite a bit worse.

“So. Can’t get decent crepes outside of Paris, eh?”

Crowley lifted the nearly-empty bollée to his lips, hiding a smile as Aziraphale polished off his second order of crepes (third, technically, since he’d also claimed Crowley’s).

“Obviously not.” Aziraphale waved a hand, and a server rushed over with another plate – these crepes stuffed with eggs and ham – as well as a fresh pitcher of the crisp cider that was already making Crowley’s head buzz most pleasantly.

“Only, I seem to recall,” Crowley swirled the last of the cider and finished it off, placing the large cup on the table beside him, “the last time we were in France, you said the best crepes came from _Bretagne.”_

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale was currently very occupied with his mouthful of stuffed buckwheat cake.

“And I seem to recall that, just at the moment, Brittany is one of the safest places for an Englishman to be. Especially one with such,” he glanced under the table, _“fascinating_ taste in footwear.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said sternly, taking a drink from his own large, bowl-shaped cup and trying to frown seriously. “You know perfectly well that tastes and styles change. Brittany may have been the place to go for crepes in the _twelfth_ century, but these are _modern_ times. You absolutely _must_ get them from a Parisian creperie or what’s even the point?”

“Is that so?” The demon folded his hands and leaned forward, smiling in a way that showed _all_ his teeth. He peered over the tops of his glasses. “So tell me, why did we spend twenty minutes walking past at least a dozen restaurants until we found one run by a Breton?”

Aziraphale swallowed, very visibly. “Well. I suppose…” He pushed the crepes around his plate with his fork, studying them as if he’d never seen them before. “I suppose…”

“Yess?”

“Oh, I missed you, if you _must_ know.” His eyes darted over and then back again, but there was something in them Crowley had only seen a few times in six thousand years: complete honesty. “You’ve been over here for nearly four years now, and I…I haven’t had a decent conversation in all that time. There are plenty of lovely humans in London, but they’re all…you know… _human.”_

“So you decided to come down to Paris and get yourself nearly decapitated in hope of a bit of a chat? That’s _barely_ better than doing it for the crepes.”

“That wasn’t the plan! I just…” he glanced around and moved his chair closer, much closer, close enough for the fabric of his trousers to brush Crowley’s knee. “I really _did_ want to talk to you. Get your, I don’t know. Perspective. Things have been a bit…strained…between my superiors and I lately.”

“Gabriel’s strongly worded note?”

From the frown that crossed Aziraphale’s face, Crowley suspected the Archangel had been more than a little rude. “He doesn’t like my plan to set up a permanent base in London, though I did get Michael and Uriel to approve, which is enough. So he had me… _audited.”_ He shuddered. “They didn’t find anything worth recalling me over, but my powers are rationed until further notice.”

“He doesn’t like that you went around him, so he tries to cut off your access to miracles? Petty wanker.”

“Crowley! You shouldn’t say such things.” Aziraphale’s protest had noticeably less conviction than usual.

Crowley shifted his hand across the table, across the distance between them, until it met Aziraphale’s right hand. It came to rest by the pitcher of cider, the longest fingers of their hands just barely touching. The angel didn’t pull away. “You wouldn’t have come all the way to Paris if you didn’t want _someone_ to say it.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. His left hand reached up, tipped Crowley’s glasses just a bit further down. “No. I wouldn’t have.”

“Nhk. So.” Crowley tried to keep his voice steady. “A dashing rescue. Spot of lunch. Insulting your boss. Anything else you need from me this time?”

The angel’s right hand, still resting on the table, crept forward, fingers lacing between Crowley’s without quite touching them. “Do you…Crowley, do you have a place to stay in Paris?”

“Yes,” he whispered, almost regretfully.

“Because I don’t.”

The silence that can exist between two immortals is absolute. Not a breath. Not a heartbeat.

Crowley’s shaking hand rose to push his glasses back in place. “What…exactly…are you saying?”

A very disapproving look. “Not _that,_ Crowley. Get your mind out of the gutter, please. But…well, I very much don’t want to be alone right now. Can we…talk?” His left hand fell to Crowley’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “There’s something…I don’t quite know how to say it, but…”

“There’s…” Crowley gently lifted Aziraphale’s hand from his shoulder, taking it in both of his, circling his thumb across the back of it. “Yeah, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say, too.”

Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath. Nodded. “Shall we…shall we go?”

At that moment, that glorious moment he had awaited _so long,_ Crowley sensed…something. Another being. Not human. Not of Earth at all.

“Aziraphale.” The angel tilted his head, puzzled by the change in tone. “Were you followed?”

“No, why would I…” His eyes went wide as he sat up very, very straight, jerking his hand back, pushing his chair away as if to pretend he didn’t even know his tablemate. “I don’t sense anyone.”

“One…no, two, I think.” Crowley concentrated, closing his eyes to help focus. “I can’t tell where, but very close. Can you teleport?”

“No. Gabriel’s still tracking me.” His eyes darted from the front door to the back. “But he wouldn’t…no. Michael. She seemed suspicious last time we spoke, but I swear I thought I’d convinced her…”

“Doesn’t matter, Angel.” Crowley stood up, circling behind Aziraphale’s chair. He couldn’t cover both exits. They might already be trapped.

“Get out,” Aziraphale said, almost like a command. “I’m already in trouble just for being here, but they’ll certainly buy my crepe craving story. Just teleport away.”

“Don’t be stupid. I froze time already today, you think I can –” He rested a hand on the back of Aziraphale’s chair, trying to calm down. “Besides. I wouldn’t leave you even if I could.”

“You idiot.” Aziraphale stood next to him, hands folded behind his back. “Fine. That leaves two choices. We either have a big dramatic fight and try to fool them, or we split up and try to sneak out.”

“Sneak,” Crowley decided. “But we should stick together.”

“Too risky. There’s a tailor’s shop five blocks from here. That’s where we meet, but only if it’s safe.”

“Nh.” One more glance at the doors. “Fine. I’ll take the front.”

Aziraphale nodded, and leaned close to whisper an address into his ear. Then, before he pulled away, he pressed his lips to Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley had been kissed before. Among humans, as a casual form of greeting, it had gone in and out of style for about three thousand years. He thought he knew what to expect: pressure, warmth, maybe some wetness.

What he felt was like the brilliant, shining burst of a newborn star, painfully bright, almost unendurably sweet. His ears rang with the music of the spheres, a single perfect chord too high for human perception. For just a moment, he forgot everything but the sensation of being wrapped in a warm blanket, held close by someone who cared for him, which wasn’t something he’d ever experienced but now he knew, he _knew_ precisely what it would feel like, and every cell in his body _gloried_ in it.

It was like Heaven before the Fall.

“Stay safe, my dear.”

Before Crowley could even think of responding – could even find the pieces of his heart, shattered from shock and joy, and pull them back into himself – Aziraphale had slipped away.

Front door. Right.

He pushed it open and leaned out, sniffing the wind. No angelic scent, just the usual filth and mud that permeated the air of Paris these days. Sanitation should really be a higher priority of the revolutionary government.

He crept out, keeping to the shadows. The street was abandoned, empty apart from a dog wandering from alley to alley. That wasn’t good.

Crowley knew two ways of hiding from non-human eyes. He could turn into a snake and try to slide into the cracks of a wall, but it was hard to make the transition without sending off enough psychic energy to alert every angel, demon, witch and medium in the entire continent. Harder still when exhausted, and he hadn’t yet recovered from stopping time.

The other choice was to blend into a crowd, try to dissipate his demonic essence. He closed his eyes, trying to sense the noise of humanity, the rumble of feet and voices. There – two blocks east, a major street. It should be enough.

He pushed away from the building, dashing across the first alleyway.

A hand grabbed his ponytail, jerking him back. Dirt-smeared fingers fell on Crowley’s shoulder, pinching him, keeping him from escaping.

“Hullo, Crawly,” growled Ligur in his ear. “Where’s the angel?”

How much did he know? Enough to be lurking outside the right creperie.

Shit shit shit _fuck_

“What do I look like, his travel agent?” Crowley pulled himself free, brushing at his collar. Trying to look unphased. “I’m trying to find the bastard, same as you.”

Ligur leaned close, narrowing his eyes, and took a big, disgusting sniff. The hat on his head shifted, chameleon head poking out from under it. One of the strange eyes stayed fixed on Crowley while the other scanned the area around them.

“Well, don’t look at me,” Crowley said, stepping back. “I haven’t got him in my pocket. You try that way,” he gestured vaguely westward, “and I’ll keep heading –”

In a flash, Ligur had him by the collar, pulling him close for another sniff. “Oh, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

A pale figure appeared at the other end of the alleyway, by the back of the creperie. Crowley very nearly called out, until he recognized the grubby form of Hastur.

“Find him?” Ligur asked, chameleon eye still fixed on Crowley.

Hastur spat, rubbing at his jaw. “Wasn’t expecting the little twit to _fight._ Covered his trail, too. Might be able to find him with a Hellhound but…what have you got there?”

Crowley’s heart swelled at the news. _Good job, Angel._ Now he just had to talk his way past the idiots.

“That’s just perfect. I spent _months_ setting up a trap for him, and you two…” Something wasn’t right. The way Hastur circled, staring at Crowley like he’d never seen anything like him.

“How’d he know we were coming?” Ligur asked.

“He could probably sense you,” Crowley snapped. “That particular angel is a lot more clever than you are. He could probably sense your auras even with them suppressed. I know I can.”

“Hm. And no power in Hell can hide a demon’s aura.” Ligur was smiling. It was never good when he smiled.

“Well. Yeah.” Crowley glanced from one Duke to the other. “Everyone knows that.”

“So why can’t I sense yours?” demanded Hastur.

He didn’t have any answer for that.

Ligur grabbed Crowley’s jaw, one finger tracing across his face where the glow of Aziraphale’s lips still lingered.

“There. A blessing.”

And he slammed Crowley head-first into the stone wall of the creperie. The world shattered and went dark.

\--

Hot lines of pain sliced through his skull, turning his thoughts into a strange, sliding jumble. He was being carried. A rotten stench. He fell unconscious again.

A slap of something wet, putrid, slightly burning splashed across Crowley’s face.

He jerked up, trying to stand, but his legs just scraped helplessly. He was tied to a chair, arms behind his back, and something kept the wood from even budging as he struggled. The air was hot, stuffy, rancid. Nearby, a fire flared from red coals to brilliant yellow-orange flames, pain searing across his retinas. He shut his eyes, hissing.

“Uh-uh.” Ligur slapped his face. “No sleeping now. You like to talk? It’s time to talk.”

Crowley shook his head. It only made the pain in his skull worse, but at least he managed to open his eyes again. The fire was back down to something only vaguely uncomfortable.

He wondered where Hastur had gone off to, but really, one Duke of Hell was enough to deal with.

“You wan’ a story? Right. There was this girl. An’ she wore a cape. Red cape. With a hood. S’why they call her Goldilocks.”

“Where’s the angel?”

“Told you,” Crowley snapped, or tried to. His voice was still sluggish, mind still seemed to be missing pieces after being so thoroughly shattered. “Dunno.”

“You’re lying.” Grubby fingers pinched Crowley’s ear, twisted it, pulled it. Ligur could rip it clear off. He’d done so before. Crowley clenched his teeth and focused on not making any sound as the Duke leaned closer. “You smell like angel.”

He punched Crowley in the mouth.

Fire lanced across Crowley’s jaw, tongue suddenly swimming in a lake of copper-tasting blood. There was a tooth. Wasn’t sure where that had come from. Molar?

Crowley spit, trying to clear his mouth. “I mean,” he grinned as best he could, “if we’re talking ‘bout stench, I think you got me beat.”

He didn’t see Ligur pick up the club. Just felt it crash into his already-shattered skull, the explosion of pain almost more than he could endure.

Then another, another – shoulder, ribs, stomach. Something in his leg cracked. Something in his gut tore.

He must have screamed at some point. His throat felt ragged. He couldn’t remember.

Then, just as suddenly, it was over. Ligur still stood over him, Hastur’s voice coming from somewhere beyond: “We need him to answer the questions first.”

Crowley blinked at the fire, finally saw Hastur standing behind it, holding something in the flames. “Lord Beelzebub sent us to check on you. Instead, we find a fancy little angel wandering the city. Lost him outside the prison. Tracked him to the restaurant. And then out comes _you._ Shiny new blessing. No aura.”

 _Shit shit shit._ They knew everything. He didn’t have a story to explain it. Didn’t have a clear enough head to think of one. Could barely keep his face blank, keep the despair from showing.

“Well?” Ligur demanded.

“You…didn’t ask a question.”

Kick to the chest knocked him over, onto his back, onto his arms, crushed under the weight of his body.

Ligur’s foot landed on his chest, stepping down, forcing the breath out of him. “You think you can get away from us that easy? You gave our Dark Lord your soul when you Fell. It’s no longer yours to try and barter your way back into Heaven with.”

“Wha’?” Crowley couldn’t keep up. “I don’t…what you talking about?”

“The blessing,” Hastur said from beyond the fire. “It’s how angels mark what’s _theirs._ You let some fluffy winged bastard try to claim you as his own.”

 _His own._ The two words pierced through the fear and pain, struck him in the heart. He closed his eyes, tried not to think about the look in Aziraphale’s eyes as they’d sat in the creperie together. “Don’ be sstupid,” he hissed. “Don’ wanna go to Heaven.”

But he remembered how that kiss had felt. A tiny piece of Paradise. He would give anything to live in that moment, forever, with Aziraphale.

“Good,” Ligur said. “Wouldn’t work anyway. Heaven doesn’t want you anymore.” He ground his heel in, pressing down on an already-cracked rib. Crowley bit his lip, couldn’t hold in the whimper. “Soon as that angel has what he wants, he’ll toss you aside. Right back in the pit. Where you belong.”

“You’re wrong.” Crowley realized his mistake after the words were already out. “I mean. ‘M not…Don’t know why he blessed me. Didn’t ask for it.”

“Oh, we’ll help you figure it out,” Hastur said, pulling something long and dark out of the fire. “You’re going to tell us about every moment you’ve ever spent in that angel’s company.”

“And if we don’t like your answers,” Ligur grinned, “I get to have more fun.” He grabbed the front of Crowley’s shirt. Crowley cowered, but all Ligur did was pull him upright, chair and all, tearing the black fabric in the process.

“I tol’ you. I don’ know! I…” but his mind was a cold blank. Oh, _Someone, Anyone,_ he had to think of a story. “I don’ even _want_ this blessing,” he lied.

Then Hastur lifted up the ling piece of metal he’d pulled from the flames.

A brand.

The end of the iron glowed white-hot, twisted into a Leviathan Cross. The symbol of Sulfur. Of Brimstone. Of Hell.

“Good. Then you’ll like what comes next.”

Ligur pulled at the torn fabric of Crowley’s shirt, exposing his throat, his shoulder, his collarbone.

“Nooo…” Crowley moaned. “No, you don’ hafta…I’ll talk. Whatever you wanna know, I’ll tell you.”

“Yeah,” Hastur nodded. “You will.”

And the brand pressed into his flesh, into his muscle, into his soul, hot as the birth of a universe.

Crowley howled until he blacked out.

\--

Crowley lay face-up in a London alley, among the garbage and the rats. Where he belonged.

Somewhere above, stars shone down, blessing on all God’s creatures. All except Crowley. He might have helped to hang them, set them in their courses, but Heaven had seen his defects, his weaknesses, and thrown him down here to die, inch by inch, for six thousand years.

He tried to see the stars, but it was all a watery blur. Even when he blinked the tears away, there was always more, more, more…

He hadn’t told Hastur everything. He’d told enough. What would the Duke do with that information? Would it get back to Heaven? Would they use it against Aziraphale?

Would they break him, like they’d broken Crowley?

A voice, muffled, distant. _Go away. Leave me to rot._

“Oh, my Lord – _Crowley!”_

A heavy thump as a figure fell to its knees beside him. His eyes tracked over. The face was closer than the stars, but no clearer. “…Angel?”

“Oh, my – I’ve been looking for you for – where have you – what did they _do_ to you?”

“Sorry, Angel. Didn’ wanna talk.” He closed his eyes. “Didn’ wanna. But…”

“No, of course, don’t even try. Let me.” Soft hand brushed his forehead. A trickle of that lovely, welcoming warmth…

And then fire, burning sulfur, blazing through his shoulder, his chest, his limbs, his soul. Crowley arched his back and screamed.

The hand jerked away. “What – how –” The paid faded, and now Crowley could see Aziraphale’s flustered face, pinched with pain. “Oh, my dear, I swear, I only meant to heal you, I don’t –”

“’M not yours.” He tried to raise a hand to clutch at his fresh brand, still sizzling and aching, but his arms refused to move. “Never be yours.”

“I understand,” said Aziraphale, but he couldn’t. How could he? Crowley didn’t even understand. How such a tiny wound could forever cut his soul off from the one place it longed to be. “Let’s get you inside.”

Warm arms, behind his shoulder, below his knees. Lifting him. Carrying him. Like a child. He curled into it, burying his face in the softness of Aziraphale’s chest. Trying to recapture that safety, that belonging he’d felt, just for a second, in a restaurant in Paris.

He couldn’t remember how Aziraphale got him inside. But soon he was settled on the bed, black down pillows under his head, thick red quilt tucked around him. Hiding his wounds, his mangled body.

“There. Is…what do you need, Crowley?”

“Rest,” he sighed. “Just rest. ‘M a demon. I can heal. Just…”

“Of course.” He turned to leave. “I…I’m sure you’ll know where to find me when you’ve recovered.”

“Angel.” Blue eyes turned back to him. He had to know. Had to be sure. “You…blessed me.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale sank down to sit on the side of the bed, hand resting close to Crowley’s face. The angel kept his eyes turned away, as if something urgent lurked nearby. “You noticed. I…I really shouldn’t have presumed. It’s not…there really isn’t an etiquette for it, I suppose, but I suppose asking first was the least I could do. I truly am sorry if I caused offense. I had hoped, if it was Michael, you might be able to slip past her.”

“Demons…”

“I know. As I said I truly am –”

“Ligur saw it.” Aziraphale faced him, eyes wide, mouth open. “Sstupid lizard eyes.” Crowley swallowed, tried to rally his brain and his tongue enough for full sentences. “They…they took me to Hell. Wanted to know why an angel claimed me. And…when I couldn’t answer…”

“Crowley!” One hand hovered over the demon’s forehead, not quite touching. “No, oh, Lord, no…It’s…That means it’s my fault…”

Pain on his angel’s face again, tears in his eyes. Who hurt Aziraphale? Crowley would kill them –

Ah. Right.

“Shuddap,” he managed. “Just. Do it again.”

“What?”

One hand fought free of the quilt. It seemed to have the right number of fingers, but Crowley was having trouble counting past three. He held it out, trying to find Aziraphale’s. “Angel. Bless me. Again.”

Aziraphale’s fingers gently surrounded his, lifting the hand to his face. Lips lowered to brush against it –

Again, pain lanced out from his brand, boiling across his skin, through his muscle, his everything. The scream was as much rage as pain this time.

When his mind cleared, Aziraphale was gone. No, not gone. Across the room, pressed against the wall. “’S it that bad?”

“What did they do to you?”

“You claimed me. They claimed me back.”

He couldn’t stand the look of horror on Aziraphale’s face. Crowley huddled down under the quilt, trying not to sob again.

“Crowley,” the voice came softly, from a distance. “I…there aren’t any words…what could I ever do to make up for this?”

“Stay,” he whispered.

A long pause, filled with silence as could only exist between two immortals.

“What?”

“Stay. Here. Until I’m asleep.” A shudder crept through him. It would be a long sleep, full of dreams he didn’t want to face. “Please. Don’t want to be alone.”

This time, the pause was long enough that Crowley feared the angel had simply teleported away.

Then the quilt shifted, and another body, warm and soft and so very solid, settled next to him. “Is…is this what you mean?”

He didn’t have any words left. He just sank into those arms, let them wrap around him. Everything hurt, more than he’d ever thought possible, but he was here, wrapped in a warm blanket, held close by someone who cared for him, and it was better than he could have imagined.

Perhaps this was enough. Even with his soul claimed by Hell for eternity, perhaps he could have this one tiny piece of Heaven.

It was the only piece he wanted, anyway.

He knew that Hell would try to take even this from him. But maybe, together, with the right weapon, they could fight for it.

His mind drifted away, born aloft by the pure angelic smell, mixed with some sweet, floral perfume. This time, when sleep took him, he didn’t find darkness, just warm golden light, a stone cottage surrounded by flowers, and a smiling face framed by silver curls…

\--

Slow, easy breathing told Aziraphale that Crowley had finally fallen asleep. He’d given the demon’s mind the tiniest nudge, to ensure good dreams while he healed. Aziraphale had worried it would be too much like a blessing, trigger whatever had happened the last two times, but this seemed small enough to pass.

Crowley was asleep now. There was no reason to stay.

He waited a moment longer, anyway, arms around the broken body of his friend.

 _Friend._ As if he could call it that, after what he’d put Crowley through. He couldn’t tell – not for certain – if Crowley hated him for it, but why wouldn’t he? It was probably only the pain, the fear of being alone, that had kept him from throwing Aziraphale out already.

For now, though, Crowley lay in his arms, and if he ignored the wounds, it was very nearly everything he’d ever imagined. He traced a finger down Crowley’s cheek, drinking it all in, not sure he’d ever be allowed another chance.

He pressed his lips to Crowley’s forehead. Not a blessing this time, just a kiss. “I swear to you. Even if you hate me, even if you never speak to me again.” Another kiss, gently, on his eye. Then his cheek. “I swear, I will never, ever let any harm come to you. Never again.” One last kiss, lingering on his brow. The last Aziraphale would ever give. And a whisper, soft as a sigh: “I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...I'm so sorry.
> 
> As per Whiteley Foster's original description, this fic is followed by Crowley's hundred (well, seventy-something) year nap, then the argument over Holy Water. I tried to foreshadow that, as well as the fact that yes, THEY WILL FIND A WAY. But also...not an especially hopeful ending.
> 
> I've marked this as a gift, and if you follow that link you should be able to find the other fics inspired by this artwork. It's a bit of a challenge going on. I don't know if any of them manage happy endings, but I suggest you check them out if you're in an angsty mood.
> 
> Comments are appreciated! Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
